Celebration & Crisis

October 14, 2010

8:30 PM

Deshapriya Park, South Kolkata

The streets of South Kolkata were transformed into a glowing sea of lights, colors, and devotion. The roads, which were once chaotic with daily traffic, now belonged to millions of people, all moving toward the grand Durga Puja pandals, each more spectacular than the last.

From overhead, the city resembled a flowing river of humanity—waves of people, dressed in their festive best, moving between the lanes, guided by nothing but the blaring sound of dhak drums and the promise of breathtaking idols.

For Aritra and Katherine, this was her first real experience of Kolkata's Durga Puja in its full madness.

As they made their way toward Deshapriya Park, one of the biggest pandals in South Kolkata, Katherine paused for the tenth time to take in the sheer scale of the crowd.

"This… is insane," she breathed, watching as thousands of people surged forward toward the entrance.

Aritra smirked, completely at ease in the chaos. "And we've only just started."

Katherine raised an eyebrow. "We've been walking for twenty minutes just to reach the queue."

"That's normal."

"This is one pandal."

"There are five more after this."

Katherine turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Five?"

Aritra grinned. "Minimum."

—

The First Pandal — Deshapriya Park

The entrance to Deshapriya Park's pandal was a masterpiece of design.

This year, they had recreated Kedarnath Temple, with towering stone-like pillars and an illusion of mist rolling over the artificial mountains. The idol itself was one of the largest in Kolkata, standing nearly 20 feet tall, Durga Maa's divine expression piercing through the golden light.

As they finally stepped inside, Katherine stared in awe.

"It's like a movie set," she murmured, running her fingers along the intricate detailing on the artificial temple walls.

Aritra nodded. "Except it only exists for a week."

The air inside the pandal was thick with burning incense and flowers, the soft hum of the priest's mantras blending with the steady rhythm of dhak drums outside. Hundreds of people stood with folded hands, offering their silent prayers before the goddess who had arrived for just a few days before she would return home.

Katherine, drawn by the spiritual energy, folded her hands as well.

Even though she wasn't Hindu, she understood what this meant. It wasn't just a festival. It was devotion.

—

The Second Pandal — Ekdalia Evergreen

By the time they made their way to the second pandal—Ekdalia Evergreen, the crowd had doubled in size.

This pandal, known for its traditional approach, had gone for an old-school royal palace theme. The entire structure was modeled after the grand palaces of Rajasthan, with intricate mirror work, golden domes, and silk drapes hanging from the ceilings.

But this time, Katherine wasn't looking at the pandal.

She was looking at the crowd.

"Why is it moving so slow?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably as they inched forward.

Aritra chuckled. "Because now it's peak time. Everyone is out."

Katherine sighed, pushing back a strand of hair that had stuck to her forehead. "It's so… crowded."

"You wanted the full Puja experience," Aritra reminded her.

"I did," she admitted, rolling her shoulders. "But why is it so… hot? It's night."

Aritra grinned. "This is human heat. You're packed between ten thousand people, all generating body heat. Welcome to real Kolkata Puja."

Katherine groaned. "How do you survive this every year?"

"We grew up in it."

As they finally reached the idol, Katherine exhaled sharply, sweat trickling down her temple.

"I need a drink."

Aritra nodded. "Let's get some cold nimbu paani."

—

Katherine's Realization — This is a Marathon, Not a Sprint

They made their way to a roadside stall, where vendors were pouring refreshing lemon juice mixed with soda for exhausted pandal-hoppers.

Katherine took a sip, sighing as the cold liquid cooled her throat.

Aritra smirked. "So, ready for the next one?"

Katherine set down her cup slowly. "I think… I understand why your mother wears comfortable sandals."

Aritra laughed. "Told you."

Katherine shook her head. "Two pandals. Two hours. And you want to see three more?"

He grinned. "Of course."

Katherine groaned, rubbing her temples. "And I thought I had stamina."

Aritra patted her shoulder. "Don't worry. You're doing better than most first-timers."

Katherine exhaled. "Fine. Lead the way."

But as she followed Aritra into the next crowded street, she had one thought running through her head—

How do Bengalis do this for five days straight?

The night had stretched deep over Mumbai, but the city refused to sleep. The streets still pulsed with life, but the celebrations of Durga Puja had taken on a different undertone here. While Kolkata was lost in devotion and festivity, Mumbai was burning in protest.

Near the wide expanse of Azad Maidan, thousands had gathered, their voices rising into the humid night air, drowning out the occasional burst of firecrackers from distant Puja celebrations. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and determination, of dust rising under thousands of stomping feet.

Banners swayed under the dim yellow streetlights—bold black letters screaming their message. "No to Privatisation! Monorail is for the Rich, Not the People!" "Bullet Train is a Scam!" "We Need Roads, Not Corporate Railways!"

The leaders stood atop makeshift platforms, their voices amplified by aging megaphones, their speeches meant to inflame, to provoke, to turn frustration into fury.

"This government is selling our future!" one of them thundered, his voice carrying over the restless crowd. "They claim progress, but tell me—who is this progress for? Will the farmers of Maharashtra ride their bullet train? Will the street vendors, the daily wage laborers, be able to afford this monorail? No! This is not development, this is exploitation!"

The crowd roared in agreement, fists pumping into the air.

The protest had started small, an organized gathering of local activists and opposition-backed unions. But within days, it had spiraled, fed by industrial giants who had lost out on contracts, by political players looking for a weapon against BVM's growing control. Now, what had begun as a dissenting murmur had turned into a roar that Mumbai could no longer ignore.

As the night stretched on, the anger did not fade. More voices joined the protest, spilling into the surrounding streets, holding up traffic for miles. The police presence had doubled, their riot shields glinting under the streetlights, their expressions tight with tension.

The media had arrived as well, their cameras rolling, feeding the fire with endless coverage, flashing urgent headlines across TV screens.

"Public Fury Against the Monorail!"

"Government Faces Backlash Over Transportation Privatisation!"

"Will the Bullet Train Project Survive?"

It was a storm that had been waiting to break. And tonight, the first cracks had begun to show.

——

In Bihar, the Ground is Slipping

Hundreds of miles away, in the rural heartlands of Bihar, another battle was being fought—quieter, but no less deadly.

BVM had entered the Bihar elections with confidence. Their success in Maharashtra, Haryana, and Jharkhand had created a ripple effect, their message of development and modernization catching the attention of young voters, of professionals hungry for change.

But Bihar was not Maharashtra. Bihar was a different beast altogether.

The first warning signs had come from the intelligence reports Aritra had received weeks ago—whispers from rural districts, murmurs of discontent spreading through villages untouched by urban infrastructure.

And now, it was no longer just whispers. It was reality.

In the deep interiors of districts like Darbhanga and Munger, BVM campaigners were facing hostility. Not from violent mobs, but from something far more dangerous—doubt.

The villagers had begun to turn away, their trust eroded by rumors, their fears stoked by carefully placed whispers from opposition workers.

"They will take our land," the elders murmured over evening chai, their eyes heavy with suspicion.

"They will build their factories and bullet trains, but will they give us jobs?" the younger men asked, their voices edged with skepticism.

"They are bringing outsiders into Bihar," local leaders warned, "outsiders who will control everything while we watch from the sidelines."

And the most dangerous rumor of all—the one that spread like wildfire through every market, every temple, every village gathering.

"BVM is here for the cities. Not for us."

BVM had built its strength on infrastructure, on industrial growth, on promises of modernity. But in Bihar, where generations had lived under leaders who had used them and abandoned them, promises were no longer enough. They needed something more.

And right now, BVM did not have it.

——

The Pressure Mounts

By midnight, the picture had become painfully clear.

In Mumbai, the protests were no longer just about the monorail or the bullet train. They had become a symbol of resistance—against corporate control, against BVM's vision of modernization. The opposition had found their rallying cry, and they were making sure the entire country heard it.

In Bihar, the tide was turning against BVM, not in the cities, but in the rural heartlands. The very foundation of their campaign was crumbling under the weight of carefully crafted fear, of stories whispered in village gatherings, of doubts that had taken root so deeply that no amount of campaigning could wash them away overnight.

And at the center of it all, Aritra watched from the quiet of his study, his fingers tapping against the polished wooden desk, his mind racing through the calculations of power and perception.

This was not a battle that could be won with speeches or advertisements.

This was a battle of trust. And right now, BVM was losing.

The question was—what would they do next?